“Oh-h! this is terrible,” Reinette exclaimed, as her face grew very red. But she was too proud to let her nurse see how she was pained, and she continued: “Yes, I can understand how a man like him would be disappointed if he wanted a son very much; but he loved me afterward. I am sure of that. How long did you stay with me at Chateau des Fleurs, and why did you leave? Was it M. La Rue?” “Yes, I was married to Monsieur La Rue and had to leave, but I saw you sometimes when you were a little child, playing in the grounds of the Chateau.” “I remember it—a woman came one day when I was with my nurse and kissed and cried over me, and gave me some bon-bons; and that was you,” Reinette said and Mrs. La Rue assented, while Reinette continued: “And you lived all the time in Paris, and never let me know or brought Margery to see me; and, oh, Christine when I found her up in that room that day and she told you of me, did you know then who I was?” “Yes, I knew,” was the reply, and Reinette went on: “You knew, and never tried to see me? That is very strange. And did father know, when Margery was at school with me, and afterward at the chateau? Did he know she was your daughter?” “No, it would have made him very angry,” Christine replied, “and lest he should find it out I took her to Southern France and tried to cut off all intercourse between you. Her letters to you I did not post and yours to her I withheld. You remember you did not hear from her for months.” “Yes, I remember,” Reinette replied. “We talked about it and wondered where the letters went, but we never suspected you, and I must say I think it was a very mean thing for you to do. Father would not have been angry. Why should he, Christine?” and Reinette grew more earnest in her manner. “You may as well tell me the truth, for I am resolved to wring it from you, and I will not tell Margery either. You had done something to displease my father; now, what was it? I insist upon knowing.” “Nothing, nothing,” Christine gasped. “He was very proud, and I knew he would not like you to be too intimate with people like us; that is all—everything.” “And was that the reason why after he was dead and you met me here you kept silent? Were you afraid I, too, was proud, and would think less of Margery, if I knew.” “Yes, yes; you have guessed it,” Mrs. La Rue said, quickly, as if relieved that Reinette had put so good a reason into her mind. She was very tired, and had borne so much that it seemed to her she could bear no more, and clasping her hands to her head, she said, imploringly: